


One Track Mind

by InkedFountainPen



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 07:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkedFountainPen/pseuds/InkedFountainPen
Summary: There was one more connection. It wasn't tangible. A connection they shared through their various addictions.Misa had found hers in her beautiful Light.Mello had a drive for success.Matt discovered his in the thrill of constant motion.They had all died for their obsession.





	One Track Mind

It seemed that anything Misa attached herself to had a habit of meeting an unfortunate end.

Trends. 

Misa Amane knew well enough why trends started in a slow climb, building to a climax, and quickly released. They sent all the passengers in the bandwagon down a swift descent over small ridges and valleys. Eventually, people were over it. They didn't want to keep riding in the bandwagon, so they hopped off as they got on, quickly and without warning. They would come back now and then for a taste of nostalgia. That or they just left the rollercoaster to fall into disrepair.

She was okay with that. As a model, she'd endured plenty of awful trends during photo shoots and fan meetups. Sometimes it was disheartening when everyone decided behind her back when the ride wasn't fun anymore, and then the blonde was ridiculed when she sat alone in the front of train ready to keep soaring down the tracks. 

She'd gotten better at predicting when to exit. That didn't make it sting any less when the trend was enjoyable.

Blood relations.

Her family had made it a tradition to watch a different Hollywood movie each weekend. 

There was one specific instance of this tradition that always stood out to her. 

The only light in the room was the illuminating from their widescreen television. Three people occupied the majority of the family’s large couch. They each wore something extraordinarily contrasting to their staple attire and signature expressions. Her father, a stoic man who usually wore constricting suits both in public and his own home, now sat on their leather sofa in a battered old college tee and cargo shorts. He had an arm draped around her mother, a woman known for her poker face and fashionable dress, who now rested comfortably with her head on his shoulder in a sweatshirt (in similar condition to her husband’s shirt) and yoga pants. Stretched across their laps, a much smaller, dark-haired Misa Amane laid propped on one elbow engrossed in the heist film on the screen. She wore a band tee of her mother’s that had shrunk in the wash but was large enough to be a night-gown on the primary schooler. Now and then, Mrs. Amane would forfeit her chance to watch the movie and elect to braid or style her daughter's silky raven hair instead. She was always delicate, knowing that if she weren’t stealthy, her brown-eyed little girl would wiggle her way out of her grasp and give her a reproachful look.

Misa remembered being so enamored with how the good guys carried themselves. She recalled how cool she thought they were with their polished pistols and weaponry.

After that night where she lost both her loving mother and her diligent father to an armed robber, she couldn’t stand Hollywood flicks that sensationalized firearms.

She couldn’t stand looking at the hair her mother had adored. She dyed it shortly after the surprise conclusion of the lengthy trial.

She didn’t like to keep things that reminded her of how alone she was. It was part of the reason she loved wearing colored contacts so much. The reason she adored the character she’d created as the darling model, Misa-Misa. She didn’t have to look at herself and see her fashionable mother and stoic father.

She only kept the funds from their bank account, her father’s crucifix, and her mother’s band tee.

Rem.

When the shinigami had been hovering over Misa’s shoulder, she’d taken her companionship for granted. It was nice to have someone to talk to, even if that someone rarely expressed anything other than exasperation, detached interest, and confusion. 

As much as she loved performing, it got tiring. Misa didn’t have to perform in front of Rem. The solace was refreshing, even if it came in the form of a hulking, one-eyed, skeletal creature.

It was solace none-the-less.

However, Misa had made a trade-off. More accurately, Light had made a compromise for Rem in exchange for his biggest obstacle. It was a barter made for Light's happiness. Her happiness.

The pile of coarse material Rem became provided about as much solace as the empty place in her shared bed; the place for Light.

So much for happiness.

Her Misa-Misa persona.

The idol, like many other things, had a plethora of sites on the world wide web dedicated solely to her. Her darling fans made some, and her critics made others. Notwithstanding their differing opinions, each site was beginning to notice the minute changes in Misa’s behavior.

She was less peppy both on screen and off compared to the way she was when she had first begun her career. Of course, that could be attributed to a loss of motivation, but that wasn't the case. Rarely did she ever schedule meetups, and on the rare occasion she did, they were often cut short by her new hot and cold attitude.

The contributing factor to these mishaps was probably her new habit of alcohol consumption. It didn’t fill the void that Light left in his drawn-out absences, but it helped her forget. She probably only needed a few glasses of strong booze, but that amount did little to help. Alcohol was like a speaker; it amplified whatever emotions were experienced. She didn’t want to cry while tripping over all their furniture. If you screwed with the speaker settings enough, you could corrupt the original audio, so it sounded completely different. If she drank enough of the blood-red substance, Misa-Misa would forget that Light was even absent. Her brain would trick her into seeing him at every corner to keep her from shutting down completely.

In all honesty, if it weren’t for Light finally departing, Misa-Misa would have probably ended up passing in a less than dignified manner. Rather than dying for love, her singing voice would be forever silenced by the pungent scent of the very substance she was using to self-medicate. Alcohol poisoning doesn’t mend a broken heart, but it can damn well stop it from hurting, albeit embarrassingly.

She didn’t want that.

She wanted to pass on her terms. She wanted to leave this world beautiful, and be remembered for being beautiful.

Light.

Her love didn’t die by bleeding out on a staircase or having his heart fail him after a painful heart attack. What she loved about Light was lost in his struggle against his decisions, and what she cared for about him died when he regained the Death Note from that creep, Higuchi. He had screamed back then. Misa decided that scream was the death throes of their chance of possible happiness.

His lonely death part-way to his destination was just the nail on her precious Light’s coffin.

She wanted to pass on her terms. She wanted to leave this world beautiful, and be remembered for being beautiful.

That's why she did.

\--

A lot of things about Mello were parallel to that of a broken and battered record.

They shared a similar appearance.

A scratched, wide, black disc with a small pop of color in the center.

A blond male standing tall in clothing composed solely of black leather. A burn scar trailing down from the crown of his skull to his torso. A red and white beaded rosary adding a similarly refreshing aspect of color to an otherwise ebony drenched canvas.

The color did little to rescue either of the items from their eventual bleak fate.

He had one objective.

A record only plays one song or album, and Mello only had one goal.

It doesn't matter how many times you bring the needle to the ridges, a new song won't be added. The number of the songs won't change. The content of the songs won't change. A record only had one set song or album, and that was that.

Mello knew he had always been motivated by an unforeseen drive. He wanted to be the best.

If the best in the world was a detective, he would overcome that detective and become the top. After all, the highest chair doesn't take two, so regardless of how much Mello admired L it would eventually happen that he would overtake him. He wasn't only a successor, that implied he would be lesser or equal to L.

Mello was drove by one singular unforeseen force, pushing him to be the best.

He wouldn’t allow himself to be satisfied with the position of a meager successor.

He had it figure out. Until a reclusive snowflake arrived at Whammy's, and did nothing except score well, play with his damn toys, and infuriate Mello.

His goal didn't change, the songs on a record don't change. He needed to be the best, and to do that he needed to best that damned number one and L.

It was for that very reason he had refused to work with Near. The highest seat didn't take two.

It could take one and a corpse.

He was repetitive.

Upon first inspection, it would seem that Mello had several pet phrases that he repeated whenever the situation called for it. It was like a formula almost; he receives a challenge, take some time alone to draft a plan of attack, have a bit of a shout as to why he’ll be the only one to best this new obstacle, throw in a few choice swear words, and aggressively chomp down on a chocolate bar. Sometimes there’d be some broken furniture added into the equation, but in his more recent years, Mello liked to think himself slightly more mature than he was in his mid-teens.

Because according to focus groups, pulling a gun on his co-conspirators was definitely more mature than slamming their worn down leather couch into the rotting wooden accents on the nearest wall.

Mello was the only one in that focus group.

Somehow, it seemed like his loudly expressed exhortations weren’t actually a promise despite the firm tone and decisive look that lingered in his eyes each time he voice them. They were more like reminders. Deterrents from straying from the path he created for himself. If he couldn’t trust his own actions, what was the point in continuing? There wasn’t. To Mello, there was a large difference between changing your strategy to confuse your opponent and questioning the wisdom behind your actions.

Sure, he experienced an onslaught of tunnel vision from time to time, but it wasn’t because he only knew how to move forwards in one direction. He could switch it up if he needed to.

But if he repeated his plan to come out on top like a mantra, there wasn’t room for him to make silly mistakes based on doubt.

His only weakness would be his own hubris.

He was old news.

Records had fallen out of style. It wasn’t too hard to see why.

Records were easily corrupted. The smallest scratch could forever taint the tune of a song to something horrifyingly ear grating. It had only taken one event to trash Mello’s chances of overcoming his rival in life, the loss of any records or definitive proof he had stored in the dilapidated Mafia Base had been blown to hell with the building.

Records were awkward to use. The players themselves were bulky and expensive, and if the player was damaged you were better off just taking a hole-punch to the rim and making a DIY Dreamcatcher or something.

Records were clunky. They were dark. They were tempermental. Records were old.

It made sense that they began to fall out of use for something newer.

CDs were polished. CDs were shiny. They were smaller and brighter. They reflected back the world they saw through their surface (they didn't dare open up), and they didn't portray the same dark mood that records do. They could be transported easy, without all the hassle of a record and player. It made sense that they became number one.

It all made sense.

Mello, who had a crisp memory of the horrors that awaited out side of the Winchester orpahnage and who's worldview would be tainted by the pain from things his now-adult-mind couldn't block out, realized it made sense. It made sense to him now, now that he lay tremoring over the steering while of his semi in a jacket and ebony clothing (the ensemble complete with his red-beaded rosary) and his face decorated with a nasty scar, that he had been replaced.

CDs were more elegant than vinyl records you see, and people now-a-days preferred them.

It had to make sense that he, an old, scratched black record; had been replaced by Near, the shiny new CD.

Otherwise, Mello would doubt himself on his uncomfortable deathbed of a leather steering wheel in a semi about to be consumed by fire.

The highest seat couldn't take two. It could take one and a corpse.

Mello ended up being one very charred corpse.

\--

Matt had never been known for his patience.

He didn't know why, though he supposed it came down to the little things he did.

The way he speed down highways like a madman accurately illustrated how much of a restless individual he was. 

The way he got all jittery when he wasn’t able to get his nicotine fix depicted his constant need to occupy himself with something. 

The way he often found himself swimming in his thoughts when he waited in one place for too long showed how much of a squirrel he was.

The way he always found himself fidgeting with the buttons on his console whenever he could highlighted reinforced the three points made above.

Despite all these little details, Matt supposed the first instance that he’d been branded intolerant was while he'd been housed Whammy's.

Everyone at Whammy's had their thing. Mello was an athlete, it was rare not it find him training his body and mind in conjunction at any point in time. Near was a recluse, he really liked (Matt assumed) making towers and messing around with widely different toys he'd collected over the years. Linda was an artist, often utilizing lesson times to draw from life by illustrating the boredom of secondar school geniuses. Matt was an avid video game consumer, he spent a majority of his time on consoles breaking curfew to break a new record or beat a level.

Roger had been trying to crack down on these little endeavors at the time by limiting the insomniac's caffeine intake, leaving the boy in a sour mood whenever his eyes began to droop. Matt had taken to trying to clear stages as soon as he could, so he could get as much done in a few hours with heavy eyelids as he had in full nights.

Of course, it just so happened that there had to be an escort mission. The fixed path his character had to guide the idiotic NPC across was riddled with holes, and through the gloom of his room (he was a devoted player, but he wouldn't risk upping the brightness for risk of getting caught again) he couldn't see every little crack. He kept receiving the horrid gameover sound effect and he really wanted to progress. He couldn't. Long story short, he hurtled his device into the nearest wall and got discovered again for breaking curfew.

Matt started getting picked first for dodgeball too, but now he was getting off topic again.

He was a man constantly needing some sort of forward momentum despite his bad habit of vegetating on his stained couch playing console games into the long hours of the night.

He relished in the adrenaline rush. It made it so much easier to think somehow. He'd always enjoyed hands-on activities during classes, and he loved the feeling of excitement he got when he floored the gas pedal in his Camaro. The chainsmoker didn't get this same adrenaline rush from playing first person shooters all day.

Mail Jeevas had been known as man of very few words for most of his life.

He attributed that part to Mello. It was hard to be noticed when you stood next to the smoking hot, hot-headed mafioso. Mello was known for his quick tongue.

The ginger was the one who followed orders and cut corners. He didn't have that same fiery ambition his blond counterpart fervently possessed. Matt just wanted to do something, anything.

He didn't need to be outwardly sassy like Mello did. He didn't have anything to prove by it. The gamer knew he was unmotivated.

He kept his insults and banter to himself for the most part.

It slowed him down, and this concious choice to be a selective mute contributed to the fact the goggle wearing red head believed he would never be a fitting L. Not alone atleast.

Matt's internal dialogue was part of the reason he'd never be able to be L. He would spend so much time poking fun at things, he wouldn't even notice that he'd been shot dead until his heart stopped or his cigarette fell out.

Matt had never been known for his patience, but now he’d only be known as the idiot who attempted to defy Lord Kira and got gunned down by an absurd amount of body guards.

\--

The first casualty of the three adolescents believed their connection had been severed long before they set out on this path. The only way they'd been in remote contact had been through a series of cameras in a now abandoned apartment and a laptop that now sat in sleep mode amoung boxes of takeout and empty chip bags. The shabby apartment it dreamed in sat ready for its two occupants to return.

They wouldn't.

Misa's hotel room was as lived-in as their abode. She had forgotten to finish making the bed before she had set out that morning.

She didn't remember because she had essentially spent the whole night sobbing on the fancy carpet.

Her cosmetic bottles decorated the vanity. An empty frame which had held a picture of her and Light faced towards the way on her nightstand.

On the bed, several different outfits were laid out. She had gone with a familiar white and black one which she didn't remember wearing beforehand.

A box filled with cerulean contacts rested shredded on her bathroom counter top. Her brush lay next to it, surrounded by a sea of hair ties.

The expensive room also wouldn't have a tenant by the end of the night.

\--  
There was one more connection. It wasn't tangible. A connection they shared through their various addictions.

Misa had found hers in her beautiful Light.

Mello had a drive for success.

Matt discovered his in the thrill of constant motion.

They had all died for their obsession.


End file.
